Inside Westminster: Tales of Hubris and Betrayal No 7
by mrsordinary54
Summary: 'Beware the Fair Sex' is a parody of the shenanigans of the British political 'elite'.


INSIDE WESTMINSTER: TALES OF HUBRIS AND BETRAYAL

7

BEWARE THE FAIR SEX

'Read this, Geoffrey,' said Angelica Swinton-Eagle, 'it's old Somerset, he's off on his bicycle to save tigers in India.'

'How? What good's a bike against a tiger? Anyway, can't stand the man. He seems to me to be an attention seeking showman,' replied Geoffrey over breakfast which consisted of a bowl of cholesterol busting ideas from Angie's latest research. The gunge in front of him looked like inedible brown glue, comprising bran, acai berries and oat milk.

Wasn't it supposed to unbung rather than glue his aged arteries, he'd queried. Somerset's cycling feats went uncommented upon as Angelica let out another screech. She'd come upon an article in the Comment section of The Daily Post.

'He's been taking Mrs T's name in vain, how dare he!'

'What's he said now, Angie?'

'Just that that she would've said that the Irish would shoot each other if they wanted to regardless of whether there's a hard or a soft border.'

'How on earth does he know what Mrs T would've said? Is he some sort of clairvoyant?' retorted Geoffrey.

Geoffrey got back to trying to swallow the unattractive stew in front of him thinking that he remembered when the girls used to feed their guinea-pigs on bran.

He queried what on earth acai berries were but Angie wasn't paying attention. Her eyes had wandered to the gossip magazine strewn idly on the kitchen chair.

She let out a loud yelp and jumped up from the table, knocking Geoffrey's bowl over.

'Look, look Geoffrey! It's Mandy…pregnant…Ptolomy Trudge-Jones…leadership bid scuppered.'

She was practically screaming out a gist of the article which was adorned with a picture of 'the happy couple'.

Geoffrey's attention was well and truly grabbed and he snatched the magazine out of his wife's hands.

'Can't be true. They must have made a mistake,' Angie wailed.

All the acai berries in the world were not going to lower any of the Swinton-Eagles levels of anything.

Meanwhile, Potty had arrived in Sri Lanka hot and tired after a long flight in economy. Fortunately, no one seemed to have recognised him, so his discomfort had gone unnoticed. His long suffering chum, Willoughby Knight-Johnston had lent him sufficient funds to cover a short trip on the promise that Potty would return his generosity as soon as money was flowing from his column.

For the first time ever, Potty was not 'champing at the bit'. What he really longed for was an ice cold beer and a hot bath. He hoped he wasn't losing it, but, never one to dwell on anything negative for too long, he downed a soothing glass of lager at the airport and hailed a taxi.

He felt calmer than he had for a long time as he'd come to realise that he wasn't in a position to take on a leadership challenge. Roger Rogers seemed to have taken over that mantle and Potty found that he was actually relieved.

Little did he know that Mandy wasn't turned on by somebody who was intent on making themselves into a nobody. Not for her life with a 'might have been'. No, she was destined for higher things and, anyway, Potty didn't have enough money to fund the sort of life she had planned for herself.

She'd come to realise that he was actually rather tight with money and would frequently try to cadge off his circle of friends and acquaintances.

'He'd better have sufficient funds to pay for this modest mini break,' the thought crossed her mind.

She was also beginning to miss the frivolity and fun of the Westminster bubble. She'd revelled in the heady sexual atmosphere of the backrooms of power where, as she was wont to say,

'Men were men and women were grateful.'

And she was. She reminisced about 'stripping stares' exchanged between certain former colleagues, sometimes leading to discreet fumblings in stock cupboards or more, if the coast were clear. She'd loved getting ready in the morning, choosing from an array of sexy clothes: tight, tight trousers; a shimmering red silk blouse with one too many buttons left undone. She was a master of the tantalising allure of her sex and revelled in the power it afforded her.

She had very masculine ideas of power and passion though. Her number one idols were Melania and Donald Trump . No matter what the Press said, no matter what dirt was dug up, they were the most powerful couple in the world. And she aspired to be like them, united in the face of praise and criticism alike, reaping enormous rewards for their efforts.

But who was she to unite with? That was the question on Mandy's mind. She had thought Potty had had a chance but lately he had begun to lose his appeal.

And she was more than a little cross that Potty's dad's antics on his bike in India were being reported more than her efforts in Sri Lanka. Yesterday she'd actually donned her designer wellies and gone to help muck out the orphan elephants in the local sanctuary. She'd taken several selfies and posted them on her Instagram account but, so far, she hadn't spotted any uptake from the Press.

Still, Potty was arriving soon, so that might stir things up a bit.

Potty arrived tired and crumpled looking. He was told at reception that Miss Mandy was out at the animal sanctuary and would be back at 5. Just in time for a quickie before cocktails on the veranda, then dinner followed by skinny dipping in their private pool. Bliss, he thought, never thinking about the cost.

He'd just bagged himself an after dinner speech contract.

'That should be easy money,' he thought as he knew he was good at making things up on the spur of the moment.

'Who cares about the truth; they just want to be entertained.' Which seemed rather a similar approach to his politics.

He'd grabbed a copy of The Times at the airport and felt huge relief that he'd escaped the chaos of the last few days. Hundreds of thousands of protestors, 72 hours to save her career. All washed over him and he couldn't care less. It simply wasn't his problem anymore.

'Ho hum, life's good,' he chuckled, catching a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror in the lift. He could hardly wait to jump into bed with Mandy. She was so willing and - well – adventurous. He'd actually learnt quite a lot from her and wished more than anything that she could be Mrs T-J number three. What a handsome couple they would make, positively the talk of the town.

He helped himself to a bottle of champagne from the mini-bar.

'Sod the expense,' he thought, breaking one of his rules when travelling: only drink booze you've brought with you in these rip-off hotels.

Potty was relaxing on the veranda, sipping ice-cold Pol Roger when he saw Mandy arrive in a local taxi. She got out, lingered and chatted with someone seated out of sight on the far-side of the vehicle. He actually thought he saw her blow a kiss to that someone before turning and striding towards the hotel.

'No, he must be wrong,' he thought. 'Who the hell does Mandy know here?'

Being supremely confident, it never crossed his mind that he was not the only one receiving Mandy's attention. It simply wasn't possible that a woman could behave like him; it wasn't in their nature.

However, as Sophia had rightly said when she'd thrown Potty out, he had truly met his match: here was a girl who 'played the field' and didn't believe, like Potty, that she should be limited to one man at a time. Mandy fully intended to have the next chap firmly in her grasp before ditching Potty.

And the recipient of the hand-blown kiss was that someone.

Mandy had a knack of sniffing out where eligible men were likely to be. She'd done her research and there was a polo stud farm next door to the elephant sanctuary. She'd also ensured that there would be some action at the farm to coincide with her stay and so a whole squad of Argentinian players were residing in the same hotel.

When she'd mustered the enthusiasm to visit the sanctuary, she'd worn her tightest t-shirt and figure-hugging leggings so that nothing had been left to the imagination. She'd applied her dewiest make-up – not too much as she didn't want to appear tarty.

And off she'd gone, a vision of innocent, caring loveliness.

Of course, her ruse worked and a dusky, tall player had wolf-whistled her as she got out of the taxi. Job done and Mandy thanked the lord that not everywhere in the world had been ruined by 'political correctness'.

Initial chat over, blushes of sweet innocence conjured up and Juan had asked to take her out for dinner. That was the evening before Potty's arrival. Mandy had learnt that the way to ensnare the target man was not to jump straight into bed with him but to dangle the bait in front of him until he was literally bursting with enthusiasm for a fleshy frolic. She'd explained that her long-term boyfriend was to join her but that they had mutually decided to have one last hurrah before parting for good.

All news to Potty, who was to remain in blissful ignorance till after his return to UK. Then she'd drop the bombshell.

Potty had done this many times, though never as coldly and with such utter calculation as Mandy. He'd genuinely fallen into the arms of yet another girl, without really trying and without any heed for anyone else's hurt feelings. He'd lived life like a little boy in a sweet shop, grabbing and sucking first this unctuous concoction, then the next.

So he had not really experienced the cunning manipulation of a girl like Mandy. He was going to pay for his dalliance with her in every sense; the bill for this trip alone was mounting with every minute but he was simply being swept away on a wave of:

'I work hard and I'm very important so I deserve this little treat.'

Little did he know of the storm brewing both between his sheets and far away back in Blighty where someone had leaked a 'story' to the Press and where Sophia was sharpening her claws.


End file.
